The one from David Rivard, roughly a contemporary, made me want to argue with some of his word/metaphor choices. I wouldn't put a frisbee in a poem. And I don't think of a banjo when I see a moon. But I persisted to the end and was rewarded.
No need to see my life as a story the worldThe other poem was the one a friend got, and when she put it up in her status on Facebook, I did a double take. That isn't the poem I got, I thought, and went to check.
has to read, no need for sentimental
mooning & nostalgia—blessed with a bit
of amnesia anyway, I don't recall much
of what went down. I know that it's engraved
there on some cellular level, that I can't
command the consequences. Like a spider
who has climbed atop a survey stake in a bull-
dozed field, I feel slightly truer in any case.
The picture in John Haines's profile on the Web site, he is so handsome. I wanted to throw myself at his feet. And he's still alive, and was born the same year as my father. You don't see portrait photos like that anymore.
Each of the moon poems is listed on the other's page. I don't know if they're related as containing moons or as containing wisdom.
Over and out.
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